


Setting Fires

by taylor_tut



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Minor Injuries, Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-20
Updated: 2020-06-20
Packaged: 2021-03-04 06:01:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,820
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24818785
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/taylor_tut/pseuds/taylor_tut
Summary: A fic from my tumblr for the following prompt: "You know how Jon was exploring a lot of the caves in s2? Maybe while down there he hurts himself like ankle sprain or something and needs to limp back since he knows no one would find him." Martin patches him up.
Comments: 7
Kudos: 165





	Setting Fires

**Author's Note:**

> anyone who has jon!whump/sickfic/hurt/comfort ideas they'd like to see written, feel free to send me a prompt either here or on tumblr! :)

Jon is painfully, literally, aware of the fact that he’s not as young as he once was. 

Though he’s not as old as perhaps people tend to assume based on the greying hair and the 50+ years of exhaustion in his features that he’s fast-tracked into the past three years, time and stress have left their mark on him just as prominently as any Entity. 

That said, perhaps he’s giving a bit too much credit to his younger, more agile body’s capabilities for bouncing back. After all, the initial fall in the tunnels under the Institute hadn’t been horrible, just clumsy, and in his frantic attempt to keep his torch from smashing on the ground, he’d hit the ground harder than expected. The pain in his left ankle had been immediate--twisted, he’d thought, or even sprained, but certainly not broken. That was a good thing. When the adrenaline began to fade (he’d allowed himself a few moments of sitting on the ground to catch his breath), he’d noticed that his legs and right elbow had been scraped quite badly, too, leaving him with a bleeding, stinging road rash that was slowly starting to turn the knees of his trousers sticky and dark with blood that seeped through. 

Getting back to the surface had been, he’ll say it, awful. Every step he forced on his ankle made it worse, and by the time he actually gets back to the Institute, he’s a wreck. He can barely put any pressure on the ankle at all--he’s not so sure anymore that he hadn’t given it a small fracture in the initial fall and deepened and widened it by walking on it for well over an hour. He’d gone from walking with just a slight limp when he’d first tested it out to clinging to the walls of the tunnels just to keep upright. His knees have stopped bleeding, but with the way that the fabric is sticking to the fresh scabs, he knows that they’ll start again as soon as he tries to take them off to dress the wounds. 

Though he knows that it’s a bad idea to rest in Artifact’s Storage, out in the open and looking an absolute mess even knowing that he’s been down there for hours and it’s nearing the time his coworkers will start showing up for work, he’s too tired to make it all the way back to his office or even the bathroom to try to wash off some of the blood.

After he rests with his eyes shut for a long moment, he drags himself from the blissful, exhausted thoughtlessness to start focusing on his injuries. The ankle is the most pressing of them and needs to be tended to first, so he crosses his hurt leg over his less-hurt one and begins removing the shoe. His dress trousers are rather tight at the ankle, so much so that the swelling of his ankle has the skin pressing against the fabric so much that when he rolls the trouser leg up as much as he can (which is not much), there’s an indent where the cuff is, and he can see the outline of the stitching pressed into his skin. 

The pain is bad enough that he can’t take his shoe off quietly. Moving his foot even the small amount he has to in order to see the damage under his sock is agonizing and has him biting back whimpers and curses. He’s sweating from the pain, and it’s a long process, as he has to take breaks every few moments just to BREATHE. 

For all his heightened alertness lately, Jon is too absorbed in his own misery to even hear when Martin clocks in half an hour early, something Jon does recall him doing sometimes when he’s having a particularly good morning and doesn’t feel the need to press “snooze” on the alarm clock and can take a bit more time to start his day with a cup of tea and some toast and jam. 

Because he doesn’t notice Martin entering the Institute, he makes no effort to keep his voice down, and it’s probably his vehement, repeated, “ow, ow, OW, damn it--ah!” that alerts Martin to his presence. 

“Jon?” Marin’s voice startles him out of his trance-like focus on his ankle. He jumps, turning as far as he can away from the door so that Martin can’t see him, but he knows it’s useless, because Martin has clearly heard him, and once he’s identified that Jon has an Urgent Need(™), he won’t stop until it’s addressed, no matter how unbearable he might find Jon as of late. 

“Martin, good morning,” Jon greets, forcing cheer into his tone to cover up the pain and exhaustion. Unfortunately, that is probably the most conspicuous thing he could have chosen to do. 

“Oh, God, what’s wrong?” Martin asks, flicking on the lights and emerging from the doorway where he’d been hovering. Jon blinks, adjusting to the new light in the room after spending a whole night with just a torch, and by the time he’s able to see again, Martin is already too far into the room to even hope he might not see. Jon braces himself for the lecture and winces at the sound of a harsh breath sucked in through clenched teeth. 

“Holy--Jon, what--what happened to you? You’re a mess!” 

Jon runs a hand through his hair and sighs. “Would you believe me if I said I tripped?” 

Martin looks disappointed but unsurprised. “No,” he admits, “but pushing you isn’t going to do any good.” He kneels down to be more on Jon’s level and takes his scraped-up hands in his large, warm ones, turning them slowly and gently. “Ouch,” he murmurs sympathetically. He moves from there to Jon’s elbow, tutting quietly, and then to his knees with another hiss of sympathetic pain. “You’re torn to bits.” 

“It’s not as bad as it looks,” Jon lies. Martin glares at him, then stands. 

“If I tell you that your options are either letting me treat these or calling Elias to take you to A&E, will you let me touch you?” 

Martin knows exactly how to win, exactly how to get him to agree to something good for him while keeping his stupid pride intact. 

“I suppose,” he caves, and Martin does not smile as he commands Jon to wait here and promises he’ll be back. 

Jon half expects him to return with tea, but apparently Martin has decided he’s a flight risk, because he’s only gone for long enough to run for the first aid kit and run back. He’s even a little out of breath from the speed of it. 

“Now,” he says as he opens the case and begins fishing around, “disclaimer, allowing me to patch this up doesn’t mean you won’t end up in the clinic. If there’s something I can’t treat, you’re getting checked out by a professional.” Pulling a roll of gauze and some antiseptic spray from the kit, he turns back to Jon and frowns. “Can you roll your trouser legs up any farther than that?” 

Jon’s face flushes pink. “Uh, no,” he admits. “This is as far as I can, er… no.” 

Martin doesn’t look bothered. “Well, then, it’s a good job that I still have a pair of jogger bottoms in the spare room just in case I ever have to sleep here again.” 

Jon rolls his eyes. “I’m not sure they’ll fit,” he points out. 

“Oh, I’m sure they won’t,” Martin shrugs, “but I reckoned you’d rather that than sit in your boxer shorts.” 

“How did you know I--oh,” he trails off when he notices that Martin is biting on a smile. “You were--joking.” 

“Yes,” Martin says. “I’ll be right back.” 

Jon takes a few deep breaths to calm himself until Martin returns with the joggers. 

“I’ll turn around while you dress,” he offers. Jon tries to be quiet about taking off his trousers, but, just as he’d predicted, the material is stuck to the dried blood and peeling it away opens up the scabs all over again, resulting in burning, stinging pain that brings tears to his eyes. “Do you need a hand?” Martin offers. He can tell it’s not meant to be patronizing--it’s MARTIN, after all--but some combination of the pain and the embarrassment has him snapping. 

“No,” he bites. “In fact, I didn’t ask for your help at all.” 

Martin stays quiet. Of course, this wasn’t avoidable. Whether Martin had found him or not, taking off his trousers was going to be painful. Not to mention that Martin is right--the injuries certainly need antiseptic and dressing, something that he probably wouldn’t have bothered with had he been left to his own devices. And the ankle will probably land him in the clinic for x-rays. 

Shoving those thoughts from his mind, he manages to undress, but he hesitates when he goes to actually change into Martin’s joggers. The material is thick and warm, and so light grey that he knows that the blood will never wash out. 

“I… don’t want to stain these,” he says. “I feel bad.” 

“Oh, please, don’t,” Martin rushes to mollify. “They’re old, anyway, and I really never wear them. Why else would I leave them here?” 

As much as Jon still hates to ruin them, it’s enough to convince him that Martin won’t secretly resent him for doing so, and he nods, carefully maneuvering his injured ankle into one leg before sitting back down in the chair to pull them up. 

“Well, thank you,” he says. “I can pay you back.”

“Not necessary,” Martin says. Jon can hear the smile in his voice and it’s, for one moment, the only thing that matters. “Can I--can I turn around yet?” 

“Oh, right, sorry,” Jon stammers, “yes. I’m decent.” 

The drawstring is tied so far around his waist that he could probably tie them together in the back, and he feels a bit ridiculous, but at least they’re loose-fitting. Martin’s eyebrows draw together to accompany an adoring smile when he notices that the fabric of the legs have swallowed Jon’s feet. 

The moment lasts too long and Jon blushes again, looking pointedly away. “Are you through staring?” 

“Sorry, sorry,” Martin apologizes. “I’ve just never seen you look quite so… cozy. It’s rather a good look for you.” 

Jon contemplates running away as fast as he can even if it would mean wrecking his ankle further. 

Martin kneels down in front of Jon and begins to roll up the fabric a bit roughly--clearly, he hadn’t noticed the wounds that weren’t bleeding, and he yelps when he grabs the injured ankle and Jon shouts in pain. 

“Sorry! I’m sorry, I didn’t—”

“It’s fine, Martin,” Jon manages through a set jaw and clenched teeth. “Just a bit tender.” 

Slowly, now, and more gently than anyone has EVER handled Jon in his memory, Martin pushes up the fabric to reveal the bruised, severely swollen ankle. He gasps and Jon wishes he could call him dramatic for it. 

“This,” he announces, “looks very bad. It could be broken.” 

“It’s not broken.”

“And how would you know?” 

“It would hurt more.” 

This time, Martin can’t help but roll his eyes. “That’s a terrible line of reasoning. Once I get the scrapes taken care of, I’m going to bring you an ice pack. If the swelling doesn’t go down in an hour, I really think you should get an x-ray.” 

Jon nods, if only to appease Martin. Really, the prospect of seeing a doctor doesn’t sound horrible--at least he’d most likely come out of it with painkillers. However, if he sees a doctor about an injury that occurred while he was working, it will have to be reported to Elias, which would mean answering questions about what he was doing at the time, and he simply can’t do that. 

“This will sting a bit,” Martin warns, dragging him from his thoughts. He gives him hardly any time to prepare before spraying the antiseptic liquid onto his knees, and the surprising spike in his pain levels is enough to make him cry out, which causes Martin to wince. “I know, I know. I’m sorry.” 

“Don’t apologize,” Jon manages. “Do what you have to.” 

Martin does. He liberally applies the antiseptic to both knees, inspecting them for dirt and debris (thankfully, his trousers protected him from most of that) before doing the same to his hands. His palms have quite a bit more dirt in them, and Martin uses a piece of the gauze to flick away the larger pieces of rock and debris. 

“Stop squirming, please,” Martin demands. His patience never wavers even when Jon can’t make his limbs stay still. When he jerks a hand back, Martin lets him decide when he’s ready to give it back, waiting quietly and thoughtfully until Jon takes a few deep breaths and offers his hand once more. 

“Sorry, Martin,” Jon says. “It’s just a reflex.” 

“I know,” he replies, though there’s some disappointment in his tone. “Almost done.” 

When he’s finished, Martin wraps the gauze loosely but securely around his knees, then applies two large bandage pads to his palms. He even takes the time to wipe away the dried blood which had dripped down Jon’s legs. With Jon sufficiently tended to for the time being, Martin leaves him alone for a few minutes to search for an ice pack in the break room freezer. 

It’s not fair that Martin can show him over and over again that he’s worthy of his trust and yet, when Jon is honest with himself, he knows that he doesn’t trust him; not really. Doubt hangs like a cloud above his head, never leaving no matter how many times he swears to himself that he knows Martin is innocent. He hates even more that Martin is learning to live around it, learning to watch his step and bite his tongue. He’ll love fiercely whatever amount of himself that Jon will give. If he can’t get Jon to break down his walls, then he’ll just love the walls instead. If Jon demands a level of transparency from his assistants that he himself can’t offer, then Martin will become more and more transparent until he disappears entirely. 

Jon doesn’t want that. 

Jon doesn’t have a choice. 

Jon believing the choice has been made for him is the worst choice he’s ever made. 

“Alright,” Martin announces when he returns to the storage room clutching a small bag, “I couldn’t find an ice pack, but Tim has had these frozen pot-stickers in the freezer for months and I don’t think he’ll mind if they thaw out. Let’s get you lying down.” 

“I’m fine here,” Jon claims. Martin can see through it. 

“Listen, I know you don’t want me to help you to the cot,” he says, “but the longer you draw this out, the more likely it is that the others will arrive and see.” 

Jon can’t quite argue with that, so he begrudgingly allows Martin to slip his arm under Jon’s and lift him up, easily supporting his weight to the spare room and lowering him onto the cot. 

“I think you should get some rest,” Martin suggests, “but if--if you’d like me to bring you some statements, I can.” 

To Martin’s visible shock, Jon shakes his head. He HAS been down in the tunnels all night long, after all, and he’s tired. 

“No, I think some rest would do me some good.” 

Martin frowns. “Well, now I’m really worried,” he mutters, but there’s a hint of joking to his tone that makes Jon smile. 

“Thank you, Martin,” Jon says as Martin adjusts the pack of frozen pot stickers to stay covering the injured, swollen ankle. 

“It’s nothing,” Martin dismisses, but Jon shakes his head. 

“No, not just for the bandages and ice pack,” he clarifies. “Thank you for… well, for worrying.” 

At that, Martin’s face becomes serious and confused. “I worry about you constantly,” he says. “All the time. I mean, sometimes it’s hard to even get work done because of it. It’s really quite distracting, you know.” 

“I know,” Jon crumbles, “and I’m sorry. But I… appreciate it. I appreciate you. For walking over the bridge I keep burning and trying to get me across.” 

Martin sighs. “Right,” he says. “Well, if you really wanted to thank me, you’d stop setting fires.” 

“I’m… working on that,” Jon tries, because it’s the best he can offer. And of course, Martin takes the offer like it’s worth its weight in gold. 

“Have a nice rest, Jon,” Martin calls. “If you need anything, let me know.” 

Jon pretends to be asleep already and Martin always knows when he’s lying because Jon isn’t very good at it. 

Well, at least he’ll get some sleep today. 


End file.
